How is it that
when I try to bow my head
and look away
after these four secret seasons with you
the second time around,
you sing me every time
in your Ivan Rebroff bass
to heights beyond the skies
and yellow-billed kite swoops
and swirls of sunset colours
and ocean swells and depths as cool
as flames of summer sun are hot?
And you unclip my hair
and laugh when it blows
in your smile-eye face
and I throw off my high heels
and run from you barefoot
through our meadow
with you mock-chasing me
letting me win a little ground
before you catch me
and we fall first-laughing
into each other’s arms
in the green pasture
and golden afternoons
and as our eyes lock
our laughter slides
slow-magic
into swoons
of lost-in-us.
(23 January 2012)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem